


Born Into Trouble

by boyphobic



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bandits & Outlaws, Canon Universe, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Cowboys & Cowgirls, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Horseback Riding, M/M, Minor Character(s), Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyphobic/pseuds/boyphobic
Summary: You know, sometimes Arthur resigned himself to being alone. His life or his death depended on how alert he was, how on edge he needed himself to be. He didn't think he had time for something as silly as a relationship.He didn't think he deserved it.Charles Smith, however, is the arrow in his side that doesn't hurt, doesn't bleed. Maybe he can allow himself this.Every moment he spends with Charles is another step closer to the edge of a cliff, and Arthur isn't afraid of leaping off of it anymore.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Born Into Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> broke: arthur/john  
> woke: arthur/charles

_“Arthur?” a woman calls out, distant and fading, far-away and fleeting._

_“Mary?” He whispers back, confused and lost, head swiveling in all directions, frantically trying to hear that voice again. He reaches his sun-speckled hand outwards, hoping to feel the light curl of fingers slipping between his._

_One last dance, one last night, one last kiss-_

_“_ Arthur!” Tilly shouts, slapping his thigh with a wound-up dishcloth.

Arthur flinches awake without hesitation, instinctively sitting up in haste and nearly slamming his head into the oil lamp hung precariously on the clothesline above his bed.

He blinks in mild shock as he tips his head forward past the morning sunlight to see Tilly standing above him, arms crossed impatiently. 

“Oh, hell,” Arthur mumbles in distaste, absently rubbing his fingers under his eyes and wiping off the last remnants of the night’s grit and grime from his cheeks. 

“I put the coffee on already. Better come and grab it before Pearson decides to gulp it all down,” Tilly says with a roll of her eyes, giving Arthur a nudge on the shoulder to hurry up. 

“Duly noted,” Arthur huffs, bracing his hands on his knees and rising to his feet with a pained grunt. Last night’s bar brawl certainly didn’t do his old, worn-out bones a favor. 

The painted golds and oranges of the dawn sunrise drapes Arthur’s face in a fragment of light, just bright enough that Tilly can see the dried-up blood still dotting Arthur’s cheekbones and temples. 

“Oh... Arthur, you foolish man. You look like hell,” Tilly fretts lightly, tilting her head and eyeing his bruised and cut face. “You should get yourself cleaned up a bit before Dutch puts you on bed rest.”

“Well, I’m definitely foolish,” Arthur jokes, glancing into the small mirror on his bedside table. He winces despite himself. Yep, that one-on-three brawl sure didn’t do his rough complexion any good. “Will do, Miss Jackson."

Tilly nods her head in agreement before taking her leave, ducking out of Arthur’s tent and weaving her way back into the early-morning bustle of the camp. 

Arthur shades his eyes from the sun with one hand and looks up, guessing it to be around six or seven in the morning. The earth of Clemens Point is dewy and soft, the last traces of the evening heat dissipated and vanished.

It’s the sort of early spring day that reminds him of waking up before dawn, fishing with Dutch or drinking coffee with Hosea, the lazy, sprawling sort of days that seemed to last forever and then some. 

The camp, the people, the danger always changes - but the way that the dawn hovers just above the treeline, sunlight spilling down from the canopy and onto the forest floor - that never changes. 

Arthur closes his weary eyes and stretches, breathing in the morning air and the scent of honeysuckle, smoke, and the bitter tang of coffee beans. He dusts off his dirty blue jeans and lifts his silver pocket watch from the table, tucking it away gingerly into his back pocket. 

He yawns one last time, scratching at the unruly stubble edging its way onto his jaw.

Across the overlook, the camp is slowly starting to wake up. Jack and Abigail smile fondly at each other and they lay underneath the shade of the oak trees. In the back corner, Mary-Beth and Susan are already trading barbs, hushed tongues lashing out at every perceived slight or flaw.

Lenny, John, and Javier sit gathered around the main campfire, speaking quietly and nursing tin mugs of coffee in their palms. The tiny flames roll over and smolder on the day-old coals, not radiating heat but not emitting too little either.

The gang’s horses reside lazily in the grassy meadow beside him, their coarse tails swiping idly at their backs as they chew on wildflowers and hay. Kieran is already awake, standing adjacent to his horse and using a brush to remove any burrs or dirt still caught in its mane. 

A cool breeze from up north drifts in off of the snow-caps in the far, far distance, settling around the camp and acting as a welcome reprieve from the dry heat of the spring. 

Arthur reaches up and lifts his old, ratty brimmed hat off its rack, fitting it snugly on his head and adjusting the rim. 

He shrugs on a light coat and steps forward into the early morning light, waving a hand at Karen as she walks past on guard duty, a well-oiled rifle held tightly in her arms.

Arthur’s worn leather boots crunch softly over craggy grasses and rocks as he makes his way over to the mess tent, tipping his hat politely at John as he shakes his head at him. 

Arthur stops in front of a chipped oak barrel full of water, standing motionless for a brief second as he peers into the undisturbed surface. His own reflection stares back at him, peering at his tired eyes, the firm line of his lips, and the slight bend of his nose where it was broken when he was young, and stupid, and young again. 

He leans forward and cups his hands together, letting the cool liquid seep into his palms. He brings the water up to his face and runs it over his cheeks, scrubbing his nose clean, wiping down the dirt from his neck and behind his ears. 

He stands heavily against the rim and sighs, seeing the once-blue water turn an ugly shade of crimson brown. At least the prickly stickiness of dried blood has vanished from his skin.

Arthur dries off his hands on his coat and turns around, heading back over towards Pearson, Tilly, and a few others. The cast-iron pot of coffee sits brewing over the flames, a few dented, old mugs nestled in the thin grass surrounding the fire. 

“Mornin’ fellas,” Arthur smiles, purposefully ignoring Pearson, who cocks his head to the side and throws up his hands in resignation.

“Good morning Arthur. Mighty fine bruise you have hanging ‘round that eye of yours,” Hosea quips, taking a small sip from his drink as he poses with his hand on his hip.

“Now don’t you gang up on me too, old man,” Arthur laughs, crouching down on his feet and scooping up a cup. He grasps the pots’ ladle in one hand and pours himself a generous amount of coffee, watching as the brew fills up to the rim.

“Ah, don’t worry. You forget I was young once like you, you know. I’m lucky to even have both my eyes in their sockets at this age,” Hosea snorts and shakes his head, clearly picturing the past version of himself that fulfilled every gunslinger’s dream.

Arthur nods his head in solidarity and takes a long swig from his mug, fighting not to grimace at the familiar taste of sour black coffee dripping down his throat. It’s definitely the shitty stuff, the kind of rusted tin you’d find hidden in some backwoods bastard’s log cabin. 

With the way things are looking at camp recently, it’s pretty telling that this is all they could afford to steal. 

God damn, he should really ask Javier or Charles if they have any leads on a homestead to rob or stagecoach to steal before they start having to eat out of the trash.

Hosea and the others around Arthur wander off or resume talking amongst themselves as they collectively finish up their breakfast, with Arthur turning his head from side to side to look around for Charles. 

The tree line surrounding their camp is so thick and dense with foliage that it’s damn near impossible to discern any person nearby if they’re not at least ten feet in front of him. 

Arthur rolls on the balls of his feet and sighs, peering around tree stumps, supply wagons, and haphazardly-pitched tents. It’s so early in the morning that scarcely any birds have started chirping; maybe Charles is just sleeping off a night of debauchery like Reverend Swanson is, as usual.

Jack runs past Arthur’s periphery as Cain barks happily and chases him into a meadow next to the horses, breaking his concentration. Abigail yells after him to be safe, as if he’d get snatched up as soon as he’d leave her sight. 

It’s getting a bit brighter now, allowing Arthur to glimpse into a few more tents and sleeping bags. His eyes rest on the cluster of gang members gathered nearby, but he still can’t seem to spot Charles, oddly enough.

He wonders if he’s on guard duty as well, or rather if he’s at the bottom of a beer bottle somewhere, where no one from the gang is there to help him get to his feet after a rough night. No, that’s not like him. Uncle, on the other hand...

Arthur manages to gulp down another sordid mouthful of coffee, lips curling up as he fights back the urge to spit out the bitter concoction onto the grass. 

His eyes wander from the main campfire and drift over towards the handful of tents scattered around Clemens Point, each one habited by a drunk outlaw or two.

Charles’s tent, though, is empty.

Arthur’s eyebrows furrow as he mindlessly lifts his coffee mug to his lips, taking a few steps around the supply wagon nearby and onto the small stretch of land the camp is situated on. 

Lenny and Javier sit on two rickety wooden stools as they wipe down their guns, a gust of wind filtering through the cypress branches and leaving a handful of leaves resting on their laps.

Arthur takes one last look at his half-finished coffee and decides against it, tossing the remnants onto the meadow beneath his feet and discarding the cup back near the campfire. Both Lenny and Javier quiet down as he approaches the two of them.

“I, uh-” Arthur starts, peering past their shoulders to see if he mistakenly missed a spot of the camp where Charles could be resting at. 

“Looking for someone?” Lenny asks, a small grin appearing on his lips as he folds up the small cloth he was using on his rifle and tucks it into his shirt pocket.

Arthur huffs and chuckles at the young man sitting in front of him, letting his gaze drop to his feet as his lips wrap around the sentence he’s trying to form in his mind. Just a little distracted and caught up, that’s all.

“Yeah, you got me. Have ya’ seen Charles around anywhere?” Arthur replies, relaxing a bit as he slouches and lets his thumbs dip into the rim of his belt. 

“You might wanna check the shoreline. He could be in the lake getting cleaned up,” Javier answers, flicking his head to the side to guide Arthur in the right direction.

“Right. I’ll see you boys later,” Arthur nods, giving Lenny and Javier a quick wave as he departs from their morning activities. 

Arthur strolls across camp as the gentle hum of cicadas rises and falls with the trees, a breathing entity encompassing their sanctuary in a buzzing echo of sound. He turns his head to the side as Sadie catches his attention from her spot at the table, tipping her hat down slightly.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Adler!” Arthur calls out as he steps over a few fallen twigs and bullet casings, careful not to trip on the root systems of any one of the hundreds of oak trees encroaching upon their camp.

“It’s just Sadie!” she yells back in response, voice slightly irate. Arthur just huffs a laugh and keeps walking, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his well-worn jeans. 

He passes John and Abigail, both of which seem caught up in their own private world, whispering in different voices and tones. Whether they’re fighting or speaking sweetly to each other, Arthur couldn’t trust himself to tell which one was the case. 

As he gets closer to the shoreline, Arthur can start to hear the bubbling crests of waves riding up and down the rocky beach, each crash getting slightly more and more clear as he approaches it. 

The lake seems to stretch so far in Arthur’s imagination that it goes on forever, more of a sea than a bay, past the horizon and onwards into the rising sun.

Arthur pushes past a few thick, low-hanging branches as he steps on the beach, the half-crescent of the sunrise leaving a golden sheen on the waterfront. It glitters and dances like a mirror of bright light, stained glass turned liquid, alive and breathing.

A school of fish hovers at the shallowest parts of the lake, clustered within the small inlets of sand and water that hold morsels of food and vegetation. Arthur, however, is careful not to step too far; he doesn’t feel particularly up for wearing soggy, water-logged boots for the rest of the day.

A few mosquitoes buzz by Arthur’s face as he swats at them, eyes following the waterline as he looks around for any sign of Charles. He shields his eyes and squints down the beach, spotting what seems to be a pair of trousers and a shirt folded over a fallen log. 

Following the trail of clothes, Arthur spots an upper torso situated languidly above the waves. Charles’s braided hair is now let loose - long, dark hair framing his head and broad shoulders. 

His hands come out from the water and thread through his hair, scrubbing his head gently as he lets the waves carry his weight.

Arthur grins and walks down the beach, shoes crunching small pebbles and discarded bones under his feet. A few waves roll gently around his boots as he approaches Charles, pulling grit and sand back into the lake within it as they recede. 

The water is a pale, sky blue, not too different from the clear skies overhead. Arthur looks down and spots some seaweed and colorful shells drifting with the tide, marine life grouping together and swimming from one part of the lake to another. 

Charles is oblivious, sinking into the waves and breathing deeply. 

It’s such an unusually peaceful scene; the breeze feels fresh and clear on his cheeks, the lake is clean and placid, and the morning sunrise brushes a gentle warmth against his body. 

It’s the sort of scene you'd expect from a romance novel or from a vacationing city-dweller, not from some dirty, half-dead thieves running from the law.

Forget about the Greys and the Braithwaites, Tahiti, the Pinkertons, all of it. To Arthur, this is as good as it gets; this is the scene that he’s been fighting for his entire life. 

To be carefree, to be comfortable, to be alive. To experience life in a way he’s been denied to since birth, to catch a glimpse into a world where he is free and he is not afraid of anything anymore, with friends to carry him.

With Charles.

“Hey, Smith!” Arthur yells, waving his arms above him so Charles can find him amongst the trees.

“Oh, hey Arthur!” Charles shouts back, voice still slightly deepened from sleep.

“Listen, I’d love to stand here and stare all day, but get outta there so we can go rob some poor bastard!” Arthur shouts, pointing a thumb behind his shoulder in the camp’s direction.

Above the constant sound of the waves coming in, the endless swaying of the cypress trees, and the hum of cicadas, Charles’s laughter carries across the lake, bright and soft. Arthur feels his heart jump into his throat.

Charles shakes his head, dipping underwater one last time. He disappears under the waves, dark form jetting across the water and towards the shallower part of the lake. Arthur leans back on his feet, about to turn away and give the man some privacy.

“Alright Arthur, can you hand me my pants?” Charles breathes out, suddenly popping out of the water so quickly that Arthur nearly falls flat on his ass. 

“Woah, Jesus, yeah! Give me a second, damn!” Arthur laughs, keeping his eyes straight on Charles’s clothes as he walks up to them and plucks them off the branches, dusting a few unwanted ants and mosquitoes from the sleeves. 

Thankfully, when Arthur turns back around, Charles’ lower half is mostly obscured by the lake water. Charles wipes some droplets from his face, taking his hair in between his hands and gingerly wringing the water from it. 

Arthur stops in front of him, holding out his trousers and shirt in one hand, impatiently whistling as Charles takes his time drying himself off, sunlight highlighting the slight dip of his shoulders, outlining the raised edges of scars where knives had dug their way through his skin one too many times. 

Arthur eyes the strong muscles of his arms, his chest, his jawline; the way that the sun has framed Charles in almost a halo of light is hypnotizing. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful.

“Enjoying the view?” Charles deadpans, taking the articles of clothing out from Arthur’s hands and sliding them on, waiting for Arthur to turn around before he finally steps out of the water and onto the shore, where he then pulls up his slacks. 

“Oh don’t mind me, I’ve got nothin’ better to do,” Arthur sarcastically replies. He wipes a bead of sweat away from the band of his dusty hat, wishing he could let the cool water of the lake take away the sheen of dirt and sweat from his skin, just for a moment.

As the sun continues to rise and begins to bear down heavily on his body, Arthur tells himself that before the day is over, he’ll grab Charles and the rest of the boys and throw them into the waves. 

Nothing’s worse than sleeping on a gritty cot with the stench of smoke from the campfire sticking under your nose.

He turns around to face Charles again, boots twisting in the sand and leaving small imprints in the otherwise untouched shoreline. Charles tugs the ends of his cotton shirt, stretching out the neckline as he throws it over his head and pulls it down his tanned chest. 

The last remnants of water droplets still cling to his skin, causing the fabric of the shirt to catch on the way down. Before Charles can manage to adjust his shirt, Arthur gets a small glimpse of the mole right next to the deep indent of his hip. 

He makes a mental note and saves that for later.

When their eyes meet again, Arthur wishes the world could pause so he could study every inch of Charles’ face. His usually stoic expression breaks into a smile; it lights up his face, running along the deep frown lines around his mouth, in the creases between his eyebrows, and in the jagged, half-healed marks where the ghost of a blade sliced down his cheek. 

It’s as if Apollo himself stands before him. 

Arthur’s fingers itch with the need to pull out his leather journal and sketch the deep valleys and ridges of Charles’ complexion, so it’ll last forever and then some. 

They are all alone out here, far removed from the scum and detritus of Lemoyne, far away from the soulless murderers, the selfish thieves, and sharp-tongued liars that plague the vast countryside. 

On this morning, on this shoreline, Arthur and Charles might as well be the only people left on earth. 

Yet, the rational part of Arthur knows that this sanctuary is crumbling and rotting from the inside out, bare-bones holding up the bullet-ridden rafters of his mind. People like them, like _us,_ don’t last too long. 

He takes a deep breath, the scent of salt and fish rolling over the churning waves beside him. Charles does the same. 

“Right, we should get going then,” Charles speaks up at last, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he pushes himself off the sand and into the trees surrounding their camp. 

Enough with the self-righteous talk. Arthur adjusts the satchel on his hip and pulls his gun belt up, happy to finally be able to get out of Dutch’s line of sight for more than a second. The need for cash is duly noted even without Dutch’s incessant crowing day and night over it. 

He wonders what poor soul will have the misfortune of encountering their little entourage today; maybe some pompous oil magnate from Saint Denis, maybe some naive New Yorker boys, maybe just an unlikely farmer moving across the plains. Charles and Javier provide the best leads for Arthur to follow, and he’s glad for it. 

Arthur steps behind Charles and trails him back to camp, pushing away low-hanging cypress branches heavy with leaves and stepping over mangled tree roots. 

The soft crunch of foliage and bark underneath his feet makes him breathe in deeply, thinking of the summers spent in the woods as a boy. No shoes, not a care in the world, his belly full of sweet honeysuckle and fingertips stained from plucking plump blackberries off their stems. 

If he has the time, he’ll take Charles out to the meadows around Ringneck Creek or Mattock Pond and guide the two of them through the spiky tall grasses and trees, keeping a careful eye out for any herbs or plants that might be in season. 

Karen would mighty appreciate the added mint or oregano leaves to Pearson’s otherwise dreadful cooking. 

But for now, Charles and Arthur are relegated to sloughing through the down-trodden bare bones of Scarlett Meadows, riding past abandoned oil fields and the skeletons of old homesteads. 

If it’s in the stars, maybe Arthur could sneak a few bills past Dutch’s prying eyes and take the boys out for a gambling night down in Saint Denis. 

Lord knows they need it.

Charles lifts a hand and brushes away thin twigs and leaves, carving a hole to step through out of the woods and into the main cluster of wagons and campfires. 

He glances over his shoulder and shoots a tiny smile at Arthur, making sure he’s following close behind. Arthur obliges and shoots him his best toothy grin back. Sap.

The swamp sparrows overhead start to chirp once the morning dew is thawed out by the sunrise, tiny musical notes fluttering like wind chimes in the cypress trees. 

Arthur steps over one last fallen log and enters the campsite with Charles, who ambles over to his canvas tent and starts to gather his weapons and hunting supplies. 

Arthur leans back against the wagon carriage across the camp, eyeing as Charles crouches down and searches a few worn knapsacks for arrows and canteens. 

The rest of the gang have all dutifully started their chores, John chopping logs in half underneath the shade, Mary and Abigail washing blood stains out of a pile of clothing. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Dutch pacing back and forth, a cigar in hand. He seems more stressed out than normal; that’s all he does all day anymore. 

He paces, brings the end of the cigar to his lips, and paces some goddamn more. Molly, as usual, sits alone in front of her boudoir, huffing as she crosses her legs and fans herself. 

The last time Arthur checked the camp’s logbook next to her, he remembered seeing a handful of entries among the smoke-stained pages. 

Kieran had thrown a couple of dollars his way, Javier had left an entire buck on Pearson’s doorstep, Tilly found some old antiques and vanity pieces; it’s all appreciated, of course, but lately, Arthur has been practically pouring cash into Dutch’s lockbox. 

It doesn’t seem to go anywhere where it’s needed, but that’s beside the point. 

Whether by the grace of God or just because he was lucky that day, Arthur had found some gold bars near Flatneck Station and passed them over to a fence up near Emerald Ranch. 

Arthur won’t lie - he nearly passed out when he felt the cool surface of the golden metal in his palms, felt the heavy, solid chunk of gold in his hands. 

At that moment, within the burnt-out remnants of Limpany, Arthur felt the closest he’s ever felt to being a king.

He felt as if he was walking through Heaven’s gate itself when he dismounted from his horse, strolled up to Dutch, and slapped the 500 dollars clean into the lockbox with a smug grin on his face. 

Dutch? He nodded, brought the cigar to his lips, and turned away. 

Arthur should’ve swiped that money back and shoved it straight into his pocket, but he didn’t. He still had some semblance of a moral compass inside him, stuffed deep down beside the black hole of his soul. 

It’s for the greater good, he tells himself. It’s not for Dutch, it’s for the camp. It’s for his _life_. 

Arthur grimaces and tried to refocus on the task at hand. Take directions from Charles, get on his horse, lead the two of them across the rolling grasslands, and disappear into the setting sun. Never to return. Ah, Arthur could always entertain the fantasy. 

Charles slings a pack over his shoulder and stands up, lifting the flap of the tent over his head as he steps out of the shade and makes his way over to Arthur. He absently braids his hair into a neat ponytail with a beaded bracelet, fingers separating and pulling his dark hair together. 

“Okay, pretty boy, where to?” Arthur chuckles, dipping his thumbs into his pockets. 

“Got word from some drunk low-life at the saloon that there’s a cabin west of Valentine with some valuables in it,” Charles starts, unfazed by Arthur’s tongue-in-cheek compliment, “should be some jewelry and gold coins in the chimney. Sounds cut and dry to me.”

Arthur digs his hands into his pockets and searches for his silver pocket watch, fingers slipping over discarded bullets and loose change. He tugs the small clock out of his jeans and flips the top open with his thumb, eyes searching for the time. 

It was nearing seven in the morning, so he reckons that if they kept a steady pace on their horses, they could make it to Valentine by sun-down. 

Don’t want to be out too late, though; the grey wolves that come down from the Grizzles at night to hunt can be nasty bastards.

As if he could sense it, John glances over at Arthur as he swings the woodcutter’s axe down hard on the log beneath him. The wood splinters and shears off, leaving the halves to tumble off the stump and pile up on the soft grass by John’s feet. 

The deep, jagged claw marks that run from his cheekbone to his bottom lip has yet to fully heal. 

Arthur nods out of courtesy and returns his gaze to Charles. “We can make good time if we head out now, I think.”

“It’s a plan then. I’ll get Taima packed up and we’ll be out by the trailhead. Don’t be too long,” Charles states, heaving a bedroll over his shoulder as he turns on his heel and makes his way over to his horse.

Charles starts strapping down his supplies onto the brown and white backside of Taima, the mare lazily flicking her tail from side to side in the morning air, brushing off the dust and mosquitoes from her hips. 

Arthur walks past the campfire as he makes his way over to his tent to grab some extra ammo, the scent of bitter dark roast still lingering on the breeze.

He clears his throat and scratches at the coarse stubble peeking out from his chin, then crouches down and fiddles with the rusty hinges on the wooden trunk at the foot of his bed. 

Arthur mutters to himself as he jams his fingers into the creaky lid of the chest, prying it open and letting it fall back against the bed frame. 

Arthur claps his hands together to rid them of dirt and leans forward, shuffling through the little personal effects that remain inside the trunk. 

Throughout the years, trinkets and mementos that Arthur had picked up or stolen from the places he’d inhabited with Dutch had slowly been lost, one by one. 

Either through theft, by accident, or from all frantic moving to escape the law, the items that Arthur could guard for himself were waning with time. 

He shakes his head as he thumbs over an old, torn copy of the Bible, one so well-read and cherished that the corners had been faded from use as if someone had opened and closed it so many times that the discolored paper could barely hold it together anymore. 

He remembers having it as a young boy, probably had it passed down from his Father before he died. Arthur takes one last look at it and then shoves it away.

A couple of ancient, water-damaged photos of his relatives are stacked at the top of the chest, the black and white faces depicted within them now grey and lifeless.

Arthur doesn’t even remember half of their names; they are more strangers than people to him, just unrecognizable faces that lie buried within the ribcage of this wooden chest.

Arthur whistles absently as he leans back on his heels and adjusts his posture, slipping a few pistol bullets into his gun holster and rolling up the sleeves of his linen button-up. 

He pushes all the photographs and ledgers to the side to get a better look at the corners of the trunk, noticing that a few pressed flowers he had made ages ago were sticking to the notebook covers in the humidity. 

Arthur feels something smooth and cool on his palm, and curls his fingers around the neck of a turquoise glass bottle. He lifts it up to eye level so he can read the faded inscription etched into the opaque glass more clearly. 

He holds it up to his face as the sunlight passes through it, the golden rays curving over his bruised, purple knuckles. 

It’s an old health tonic, and he can read the brand name; _S.M Neely_. Arthur is taken aback and hums in thought - he hadn’t heard that name since Blackwater. He must’ve gone and picked it up at the general store down there before it all went to hell. 

Arthur clicks his tongue but puts the tonic into his pocket anyway. He can’t risk getting hurt and not having medicine because of some flimsy bad memories attached to it. 

Arthur runs his hands over the top of the rough wooden chest and closes it as gingerly as he can muster, giving it a firm shove to make sure the hinges realign as it shut. 

His aching knees protest as he pushes himself to his feet, Arthur already anticipating the rousing speech Hosea or Dutch might deliver to him about gaining wisdom in his “old” age. 

Christ, he didn’t even imagine being alive long enough to complain about the odd little aches and pains in his bones. 

Arthur brushes his hand against his hip pocket to reassure himself that his pistol is safely tucked away within his jeans, and he slips the last few bullets into the leather bandolier over his chest. 

The muted bronze of the rifle bullets gleams a bright gold once Arthur steps into the sunlight, like hundreds of heavy, gilded coins affixed to his vest.

He shifts the heavy strap on top of his shoulders to fix it in place for the long ride to Valentine, finding some security in the fact that an arsenal of weaponry lay at his fingertips. 

It sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time that he’d ever been strong-armed into handing over money, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Arthur had put a bullet through some bandit’s ribcage for trying. 

A little highway robbery never hurt anyone, except for the dead man that put himself between Arthur and the business end of his pistol.

With his supplies ready, Arthur makes his way over to Charles and Taima, mentally going over the check-list of provisions and ammunition they might need along the way to the homestead. 

He guesses that if they leave behind a cigar or a tin cup or two, they could always pop into town and pick up anything extra at the general store. Hopefully, Cornwall and his men wouldn’t have the same idea.

He doesn’t quite think that Charles would appreciate the Pinkertons generously giving him the option between being buried alive in a shallow grave or wasting away in a locked prison cell. 

Arthur whistles low between his teeth, and Tundra, his Appaloosa, comes trotting over to him from across the meadow; blades of wheat and grass stick to her strong hooves and her white mane swishes across her dappled-grey shoulder blades as the wind picks up.

“Atta girl,” Arthur mumbles in admiration, smoothing his hand across her neck as she ducks her head forward and waits for Arthur to climb onto her back. 

He reaches into the saddlebags slung low atop her back and examines each pocket and crevice for any extra space he could stuff supplies into, any unfilled pouch that could fit another bullet or two within. 

Arthur grabs hold of the canvas straps affixed to the bags and gives them a tug to test their tightness, as he wants to make sure that he gets one last check before they hit the road. 

Navigating his right boot into Tundra’s stirrups, Arthur shifts his weight onto his leg and hoists himself up onto her back as he’s done thousands of times before; he’s had the Appaloosa since they left Colter, and each precise movement they make together is near-muscle memory.

Arthur makes himself comfortable on his saddle, scooting forward and gripping the reins taut in each hand. Tundra’s slick coat is already warm from standing beneath the morning sun, and she swings her tail back and forth as she restlessly digs at the soft dirt under her hoof and waits for Arthur’s commands. 

Arthur brings a hand to his eyes and shields them from the sunrise, looking over in Charles’ direction to see whether or not he’s ready to take off. At the edge of the treeline, Charles makes eye contact with Arthur and gives him a brief thumbs-up. 

Arthur smiles at him. “Alright girl, let’s get going,” he whispers to Tundra, patting her side and giving her a short nudge with the heel of his boot. 

Lazily, the mare breaks into a trot, Arthur maneuvering past loose farm animals and wayward hitching posts. He bounces in time with her stride, watching as Charles saddles up and mounts Taima near the beginning of the pathway out of Clemens Point.

In a few short steps, Arthur slides up next to Charles and gives him a rather courteous tip of his hat, a shit-eating grin tastefully hidden beneath the beard on his upper lip.

Why is he smiling, even he can’t tell. 

Charles halts the two of them and digs through his trouser pockets for a moment, then pulls his hand away, revealing a shiny red apple caught between his fingers. 

He bends at the waist and hovers his hand beside Taima’s long muzzle, offering her the treat before the long journey ahead of them. She gleefully accepts the apple and huffs as Charles brushes his hand through her mane, the soft crunching of her teeth filling the air. 

He then readjusts his bandana and picks up the reigns, giving them a light snap. 

“Okay Arthur, I’ll take the lead,” Charles asserts, Taima cantering onto the trail ahead and making her way through the trees.

Arthur picks up the pace and starts weaving Tundra past overgrown tree roots and fallen logs. “Sounds good enough to me.”

The pathway out of camp takes them through a gateway of ancient, towering cypress trees, their canopies so tightly packed together that not even a fraction of sunlight can force through the dense foliage and hit the earth beneath it. 

A tunnel of darkness shrouds Arthur and Charles in much-needed shade, almost changing day into night inside of it. 

It’s as if a terrestrial, omnipresent giant lies in slumber at the foot of Clemens Point, guarding the entrance and concealing the weary and ever-dwindling population of outlaws living within it. 

As they glide through the forest, Arthur can’t help but let his eyes rove over the thick, heavy branches above him. It’s a sight radically different from the miles of dead woodlands near Colter. 

Charles’s braided hair thumps lightly against his back as he focuses his attention on guiding Taima and Arthur out of the endless forest and into the open plain, the buzzing of mosquitoes and cicadas rising and falling with the spring breeze.

The archway of trees snakes through the hilly countryside, eventually giving way to the vast grasslands of Scarlett Meadows. Charles and Arthur emerge out into the bright sunlight and turn a corner heading north, Arthur breathing in the scent of fragrant magnolia and gardenia plants dotting the lush meadows.

Warm wind sweeps across his face and tangles his hair, a thick outer layer of heat displaced only by the fast gallops of Tundra beneath him. She lurches and charges over strewn rocks and uneven earth formations, her weight heavy and solid as she supports Arthur on her back.

Charles begins to feel confident in his directions and pulls back to Arthur’s side, his body tensed as Taima carries him across the fields. He falls in step with Tundra’s movements and glances behind his shoulder to ensure Arthur’s rugged form is following closely. 

He clears his throat. “I thought we weren’t ever gonna make it out of there, I didn’t know you had to rummage through your wardrobe first,” Charles sarcastically puts, and there’s an airy, bouncy laugh in his tone that makes Arthur’s heart hurt.

Real funny Charles. 

“I was just making sure we had enough bandages and medicine to care for someone with your delicate constitution,” Arthur retorts back, “don’t you come cryin’ to me when you got a gunshot to the leg.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see who’ll really be needing the first-aid once we get to this homestead,” Charles shouts over the gallops of their adjacent horses, voice strong and firm. 

Arthur shakes his head next to him and grins, his gold belt buckle clanging against his gun holster. It’s another cloudless day in Scarlett Meadows, and Arthur feels grateful that he and Charles decided to embark on a day without any sign of its powerful thunderstorms. 

The heat’s bad enough as is, but with fiery lightning, rolling thunder, and the chance of tornadoes, it would be unbearable to even leave his camp tent. He doesn’t know how these Southern folk manage to survive it year-round. 

He won’t ever admit it, but Arthur secretly fears being cooked to a crisp by one of those lightning strikes. With his luck, it wouldn’t surprise him.

Suddenly, Charles speaks up again, distracting Arthur from his paranoia. “Hey Arthur, do you mind pulling off the trail for a second? There’s something I want to show you.”

Puzzled, Arthur affirms his request. It’s not as if a brief, five-minute detour is detrimental in the grand scheme of things; they’ve still got a long day of riding on horseback ahead of them. 

Maybe Charles has managed to smuggle some liquor and cash away from Dutch’s hawk-eyed glare, or maybe he stumbled upon another one of those Lemoyne Raiders camps. 

Taima slows down to a lively trot as Charles turns them off the trampled path ahead of them and leads them into a small grove, Arthur spying a bending river spilling water across flat-faced rocks. 

He has the vague recollection that perhaps he went fishing here with Kieran once, on some otherwise trivial and unimportant day. The way that time bleeds together, turning days into months, and months into years, never fails to shock Arthur. 

They duck back into the treeline, Tundra becoming engrossed by the bundles of leaves and berry bushes packed between the trees. Charles stops briefly ahead of the river line, descending onto Taima’s stirrups and hoisting himself down. 

He reaches over and takes hold of the reins again, this time to tug Taima along beside a lower tree branch and hitch her there for the time being. The forest here is not as dense as it is around Clemens Point; Arthur welcomes being able to see the golden rays of light glisten off of Taima’s coat and the riverbed below them. 

Arthur follows Charles’ lead and copies him, guiding Tundra to a nearby live oak and fixing a knot around a branch with the reins. From there, Arthur slides off her back and onto the packed earth, making note of small clusters of Indian Tobacco and Creeping Thyme lining the edge of the creek. 

“So what are we doing down here, Charles? Any ideas?” Arthur kicks a rock idly and relaxes with his hands on his hips. 

Charles, ever on edge, turns his head from side to side and tries to see if they have any unwelcome visitors. His eyes cut through the trees as if he resolutely expects a member of the gang, or Hell, even Dutch himself to come striding through the forestry and into their little hideaway.

Songbirds chirp in the canopy above their heads, and Arthur racks his brain to try and remember the last time he had the pleasure of having more than a second just to himself. 

It feels as if the crushing pressure of the Pinkertons and money and this god-forsaken Rhodes bullshit is a physical entity that holds the noose around Arthur’s neck like a hangman. 

Each morning, the noose tightens, little by little. But when Charles is by his side, the grip on his throat slips, and he can breathe again. 

He’s getting tired of this shit. And fast. But Charles, he makes it bearable. 

As if on cue, Charles refocuses his attention back towards Arthur. He nonchalantly gestures for Arthur to come over to him, and at once, Arthur knows what game he’s playing. 

He huffs back a laugh. He can’t help himself, he’s hopeless. 

Arthur saunters the few feet over to Charles and leans back against the wide oak tree beside him. Fish in the brook next to them leap out of the water like firecrackers, and Arthur can feel the same sentiment leaping in his chest. 

He meets Charles’ gaze, and Arthur feels like he’s on fire, the same sort of rush as if he’s standing on the edge of a cliff or lying on the rails in front of an out-of-control locomotive. 

“This is some little detour, huh? What, you’ve planned this since the second we left camp, haven’t you?” Arthur prods Charles’ chest with a jab of his finger, relishing in the deep smile he pulls from the normally-stoic outlaw in front of him.

Charles’ eyes glint darkly, a mischievous and knowing look filtering across his expression. He tenses his jaw to hide his smile and mask the obvious; Arthur is asking a rhetorical question, isn’t he, fool that he is? 

“Is there even a home in Near Hanover that needs robbin’?” Arthur incredulously asks. The two of them are so close now that he can smell the tobacco and cinnamon drifting off of Charles’ dark skin. 

“There is, trust me. But there’s something more important to me than that right now,” Charles states, his voice low. 

Arthur fights to stop from keeling over right there. The blood rushes hot and fast through his veins as Charles stares at him in the heavy silence. Maybe this is a hallucination, maybe Arthur’s been struck by lightning and didn’t even notice.

The attraction he’s been trying to deny over these past few months, every instance of Charles’ hand brushing his, every single moment where Arthur woke up imagining Charles’s lips on his has built up to this - this instant of unknowing certainty. 

Here he stands at the edge of the abyss, and he feels no fear.

The wind ruffles Charles’ braids and he shifts his weight, standing over Arthur like he’s staring at the most prized elk in the grasslands or a white panther caught in his path. 

“Where’d you get this from, hm?” Charles whispers, his arm leaning on the tree above Arthur’s head as he bends forward, brushing a fingertip against the light bruise outlining his right eye, gentle enough that Arthur doesn’t even flinch.

His heart is racing so fast he’s worried it might explode in his ribcage. How would poor Charles explain that to a distraught camp that their most beloved member had died not from a gunshot, nor a hanging, but from having so much love in his heart that it burst at the seams?

“Why, I was defending your honor, of course,” Arthur tries to answer sincerely but fails before he can even finish getting the sentence past his lips. He laughs lightheartedly as Charles’ head falls, a chuckle escaping from his usually stony exterior. 

“You jackass,” Charles laughs again, and Arthur can’t help but relish in the quiet, soft sound. It makes him so happy, he can feel his cheeks warm from it, and the smile he thought couldn’t get bigger begins to stretch at the corner of his lips. 

They both laugh like crazy, drunken men sharing a war story from decades ago, but instead, they’re just two people leaning up against a tree trunk in the middle of fucking nowhere, and Arthur doesn’t think he’s capable of enjoying it any more than he already is. 

His heart feels heavy in his chest as if it’s a second away from bursting.

It’s a spectacle, really - Arthur manages to hide it from Dutch, to seclude it away from the Pinkertons, and Cornwall, and any other bastards that try to rip it away from him. _This,_ this is for Arthur, and for Arthur only.

Charles kisses him. 

He’s so soft against him, his lips full and warm, his palms on either side of Arthur’s face. Arthur feels so light-headed and shaky that he wraps his arms around Charles and pulls him closer, somehow, just to keep from falling over.

Their chests are pressed flush together, and for a moment Arthur is worried that Charles can feel his heart beating fast, a steady echo brushing up against his abdomen. 

Arthur breathes in deeply, hands running up the weathered fabric of Charles’ cotton shirt, fingertips feeling over the gentle rise of his neck and up to his cheeks.

Arthur can’t help but feel delirious against Charles’ body; there’s a tightness in his chest, the kind of excitement that leaves him shaking, trembling with it, the same feeling you’d get riding a bucking bronco or outrunning the law.

He rubs the pad of his thumb across the small scars that dot Charles’s face, kissing him again. Charles holds Arthur so close in his arms, so tight, that Arthur almost feels as if he could fall asleep. 

The spring breeze smells slightly of wildflowers and tree sap, the thin stubble on Charles’ jaw distracting him as they kiss.

They break apart, and Arthur leans back heavily against the oak tree, the cool shade and the warmth of Charles’s skin making goosebumps press up against his arms. Arthur blinks slowly, contently, his foolish little grin still persistent on his face.

“We should get going, Arthur. It’ll take us all day to get to New Hanover,” Charles sighs, Arthur feeling his tangible hesitation to leave their private sanctuary. He presses his forehead against Arthur’s, who closes his eyes and lets his hands rest on the slight curve of Charles’ hips.

“Oh, who cares. Just a little while longer… just gimme one more second,” he whispers, bracing himself against Charles, his head buried in his shoulder. 

They both fall silent, letting the deep hum of cicadas and the chirps of sparrows fill in for the lack of conversation. The early morning chill has given way to a heavy, humid afternoon, a little more stifling than Arthur would care for. He ponders on suggesting to Charles’ whether he would want to take a dip in Flat Iron Lake again. 

What he wants most of all, however, is to relieve Charles of that gunpowder-stained shirt he has on, to toss it aside and let his fingertips map out the lines and edges of his broad chest. Arthur smiles at the thought.

He hasn’t felt like this since he was with Mary a long, long time ago, when he was young and stupid and hopelessly in love. Arthur lives with the sobering knowledge that he’s not due for a long time on this earth, and each relationship he has is precious and fleeting. 

He hopes, hopes to God, hoping against hope that he’ll have a little more time to spend with Charles. That it won’t end, that it’ll never end. 

He knows deep down that it’s not possible, but as Charles holds him softly in his arms, Arthur lets the thought dissipate into the air, swirling among the fallen leaves and across the flocks of birds overhead.

Nothing can take away this brief moment of intimacy that Arthur clings to; he won’t allow it. This, this is the scene that he’ll carry with himself forever until time stops and the stars fall apart.

He’ll carry Charles with him forever, as long time allows him to. He’ll never have enough time. 

But that can wait for another day.


End file.
